The first entry I made in this blog mentioned something about being full time and never being allowed to work overtime and loving it. It also mentioned that I had played the multiple simultaneous jobs game and had hoped to not have to do it again. Something about been there, done that, and only catastrophe could get me to wear that grubby, tattered t-shirt once more.
Guess what? The stupid shirt still fits, unfortunately, and it didn't take a catastrophe to get me to wear again. All it took was a look at my checkbook.
I found myself taking a long, hard overview of my finances not too long ago. Like many, I couldn’t figure out why I had no money left over paycheck to paycheck. It especially hit home when wondering about gift-giving in the upcoming holiday time. Shall I bore you with the bit about having my portion of the national debt to pay and that it's accumulating interest at what was once considered usurious rates? Nah. If you’re as cynical as I am, you’d just be saying that it serves me right. How about the price of fuels – heating, car running, etc. – and the utility bills effected by same? Nah. Medical costs? Nah. Groceries? Please – everybody eats. I’m not alone in this financial woe, I’m just the one having a vocal moment about it online. I’m done kvetching now – almost.
It would seem that finding something else above and beyond those 40 hours is upon me again. I don’t relish the idea, but I’m back to perusing want ads for something to tack onto the work-week. But, I feel my middle years a bit more nowadays. I don’t bounce back as well as the 20-something year old a part of my brain keeps telling me I am. Still, the bills loom before me, winter looms before me, all manner of money-eating expenses loom before me and none of it’s going away.
Do I hear the smallest violin playing sad sympathy notes just for me? Nah. Probably just the additional squeaky chair I’ll be sitting in to continue to earn my keep on this round rock we call Earth.
Happy holidays, all.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Coffee, anyone? Anyone? Please?
What a way to start a Sunday morning. My coffeemaker died. Looks like the heating element finally called it quits, probably from being left on all day too many times and having water spilled over it like a baptism every once in a while in my 4 AM waking stupor. But, hey, nine years. Not bad for the modern small appliance.
Of course, shopping for a new one is definitely in the near future. I was looking for same on web-pages, and in the Sunday ad circulars which outnumber the actual news portion of the Sunday paper by 3:1. There are many options, too many for this woman who just wants two cups of coffee in the morning. I was amused by a 4-cup coffeemaker, tiny toaster oven and little griddle combination. Given my tendency to not always be mindful/fully conscious first thing in the morning, what do you think the life expectancy of such a nifty little item would be in my kitchen?
The search continues. In the meantime, my minor caffeine addiction needed to be satisfied. This being the first morning without the proper equipment, the results were disappointing. Boil water, steep coffee in tea pot for five minutes (tea lovers, forgive me), filter through fine sieve and serve. It lacked its usual robustness and left too much fine coffee sludge at the bottom of the cup for my tastes. Next experiment will no doubt include the original coffee filter system in some way.
However, this cannot go on. I may be a morning person by nature, but this coffee-making improvisation requires too much thinking at an hour when I'm lucky to be able to find the kitchen light. I need my sunrise mud and I need to not think about it beyond spoon coffee, pour water and hit button. Simple stuff. It will happen again and probably before the week is out. Trust me.
Of course, shopping for a new one is definitely in the near future. I was looking for same on web-pages, and in the Sunday ad circulars which outnumber the actual news portion of the Sunday paper by 3:1. There are many options, too many for this woman who just wants two cups of coffee in the morning. I was amused by a 4-cup coffeemaker, tiny toaster oven and little griddle combination. Given my tendency to not always be mindful/fully conscious first thing in the morning, what do you think the life expectancy of such a nifty little item would be in my kitchen?
The search continues. In the meantime, my minor caffeine addiction needed to be satisfied. This being the first morning without the proper equipment, the results were disappointing. Boil water, steep coffee in tea pot for five minutes (tea lovers, forgive me), filter through fine sieve and serve. It lacked its usual robustness and left too much fine coffee sludge at the bottom of the cup for my tastes. Next experiment will no doubt include the original coffee filter system in some way.
However, this cannot go on. I may be a morning person by nature, but this coffee-making improvisation requires too much thinking at an hour when I'm lucky to be able to find the kitchen light. I need my sunrise mud and I need to not think about it beyond spoon coffee, pour water and hit button. Simple stuff. It will happen again and probably before the week is out. Trust me.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Cookie-cutter me
One of the best jobs I ever had was working in a hospital for a medical laboratory. It paid relatively well and I enjoyed my work. I was required to wear a uniform of sorts of white pants, clean shirt of choice (no t-shirts with logos, slogans, philosophies, etc.) and a lab coat over the whole thing. I did this job for six years and didn't mind it at all. Even after the lab lost its contract with the hospital and I took a position within lab walls which was clerical in nature, I still wore the uniform. I liked it. It delineated lab from home, work from play.
Eventually, I adapted to wearing regular or civilian clothes to work again and wore them happily over the next 12 years. I liked wearing civies. I liked dressing for work, picking and chosing the clothes du jour. I never wore anything off the wall and the choices were always mine. Unemployment in 2004 into 2005 brought dressing for any work to a screeching halt and my wardrobe stagnated due to lack of need and funds. When I finally returned to the workforce in late 2005 in a temporary position, I found that, while there were folks who preferred to dress to impress, they were in the minority. Yep, I was somewhat overdressed for the office casual environment I was in, but I was so happy just for the opportunity to dress for work again, I didn't care.
Finally this year, I entered a job that I again enjoy. It was in a healthcare setting, but was a clerical position. All went along merrily in this originally temporary job, with me still happily dressing in my own clothes, until September. In August, when I went from temporary to permanent, I was informed that, even though my patient contact time would be minimal to none, all office staff were expected to wear medical scrubs.
Scrubs! Those boxy-looking, drawstring tightened, four sizes allegedly fit all, please don't make me wear them articles of cotton sheeting clothing. Never mind that they present a professional appearance during those brief moments when the patients might see me. I was unhappy with having to conform, to look like everyone else. I kept being reminded of that "Twilight Zone" episode where they made everyone look the same. There was no style, no distinctness of being.
I found myself looking through catalogs and web pages full of uniforms and, while I was warming to the idea of wearing a uniform again, I was still slightly pleased by the fact that I couldn't find scrub pants that would fit. I have long legs and was finding that women's scrubs weren't long enough and men's scrubs, while long enough, wouldn't fit my girlish hips. I hit upon making my own, but only measured once and cut once. Sewn with no room for a redo, I found I had made a pair of scrubs pants that will be ready for me to wear in about ten pounds.
My employer was patient, but still wanted to see me wearing scrubs like the rest of the staff. I finally found two sources, but only one came through. Land's End, bless them, make work chinos for the female figure that they hem to length. Ordered, paid for by my employer, I now had pants. They weren't scrubs, but because of the length issue, the chinos were an acceptable alternative. The tops were next; however, while I was really starting to feel like a uniform wasn't such a bad thing, extra monies for any kind of clothes shopping weren't there and the scrub tops had to wait. But, I found some at a bargain price yesterday and bought them.
So, I've come full circle. Yes, I still grumble just a wee hair, conforming not always easy for me, but oh, the upside of it all. I had forgotten how much easier uniform wearing is first thing in the morning. I had forgotten how much I preferred the delineation of job time from not job time. But perhaps most importantly, I had forgotten that while scrub tops and pants may make us appear the same, we are not. The distinctness of being still shines through and no amount of scrubbie threads will deter that. I saw that every day in the nurses and office folks I work with, but wasn't truly seeing it until today.
So, make me look uniform in the uniform I now must wear. Make me look like part of the healthcare setting I proudly work in and professional for the patients I now regularly see. Cookie-cutter me. Okay, so it's not really a verb. I'm still ready.
Eventually, I adapted to wearing regular or civilian clothes to work again and wore them happily over the next 12 years. I liked wearing civies. I liked dressing for work, picking and chosing the clothes du jour. I never wore anything off the wall and the choices were always mine. Unemployment in 2004 into 2005 brought dressing for any work to a screeching halt and my wardrobe stagnated due to lack of need and funds. When I finally returned to the workforce in late 2005 in a temporary position, I found that, while there were folks who preferred to dress to impress, they were in the minority. Yep, I was somewhat overdressed for the office casual environment I was in, but I was so happy just for the opportunity to dress for work again, I didn't care.
Finally this year, I entered a job that I again enjoy. It was in a healthcare setting, but was a clerical position. All went along merrily in this originally temporary job, with me still happily dressing in my own clothes, until September. In August, when I went from temporary to permanent, I was informed that, even though my patient contact time would be minimal to none, all office staff were expected to wear medical scrubs.
Scrubs! Those boxy-looking, drawstring tightened, four sizes allegedly fit all, please don't make me wear them articles of cotton sheeting clothing. Never mind that they present a professional appearance during those brief moments when the patients might see me. I was unhappy with having to conform, to look like everyone else. I kept being reminded of that "Twilight Zone" episode where they made everyone look the same. There was no style, no distinctness of being.
I found myself looking through catalogs and web pages full of uniforms and, while I was warming to the idea of wearing a uniform again, I was still slightly pleased by the fact that I couldn't find scrub pants that would fit. I have long legs and was finding that women's scrubs weren't long enough and men's scrubs, while long enough, wouldn't fit my girlish hips. I hit upon making my own, but only measured once and cut once. Sewn with no room for a redo, I found I had made a pair of scrubs pants that will be ready for me to wear in about ten pounds.
My employer was patient, but still wanted to see me wearing scrubs like the rest of the staff. I finally found two sources, but only one came through. Land's End, bless them, make work chinos for the female figure that they hem to length. Ordered, paid for by my employer, I now had pants. They weren't scrubs, but because of the length issue, the chinos were an acceptable alternative. The tops were next; however, while I was really starting to feel like a uniform wasn't such a bad thing, extra monies for any kind of clothes shopping weren't there and the scrub tops had to wait. But, I found some at a bargain price yesterday and bought them.
So, I've come full circle. Yes, I still grumble just a wee hair, conforming not always easy for me, but oh, the upside of it all. I had forgotten how much easier uniform wearing is first thing in the morning. I had forgotten how much I preferred the delineation of job time from not job time. But perhaps most importantly, I had forgotten that while scrub tops and pants may make us appear the same, we are not. The distinctness of being still shines through and no amount of scrubbie threads will deter that. I saw that every day in the nurses and office folks I work with, but wasn't truly seeing it until today.
So, make me look uniform in the uniform I now must wear. Make me look like part of the healthcare setting I proudly work in and professional for the patients I now regularly see. Cookie-cutter me. Okay, so it's not really a verb. I'm still ready.
Monday, September 11, 2006
What’s Wrong with the Way I Talk?
How do I hate my voice, let me counts the ways.
A few days ago, a friend contacted me and asked if I might be interested in doing an audition tape with him. No, the audition is for him, not for me, but he is paying me for my voice time. I’m never against making a few more coins on top of the few coins I already make, so I agreed.
Then, I got curious. I sort of have an idea of what I sound like because I change my voicemail message every day. It ain’t the nicest thing to listen to. My normal voice is a little higher pitched than I always expect and has a nasal quality that only a fellow sinus sufferer can love. It also has a quality to it that I’ve heard in long-time smokers and I’m a lifelong non-smoker. I also talk faster than some of the doctors I complain about. I basically sound like a dorky, asthmatic teenager who’s had one too many colas. While I’ll proudly call myself a dork, admit to having allergies and imbibing in 2-3 caffeinated beverages a day, my time of qualifying to be a teenager is long over.
The audition tape is scripted. You might think there’s hope in that fact. Trust me, that only makes it worse. The last time I read from a script was during a brief stint in drama club back in the stone age of junior high, when I realized that an actor’s life was not for me. I tried practicing with the recording software on my computer the other night and was disappointed, to say the least. I mean, when you want to wince on hearing something that you consider good writing, there’s something wrong. I read without hitting the emotional marks that I would want to hear as a listener, and my delivery sounded
disjointed,
distracted,
borderline staccato (not to be confused with borderline psychotic, although …)
But, let’s face it. Few of us can say we like the way we sound, scripted or unscripted, rehearsed or impromtu. When asked, we can find the negative qualities faster than anyone else and can likely name someone that we wouldn’t mind sounding a little more like (Lauren Bacall is my personal choice). But, unless you’re willing to put more time and effort into sounding your best, you’re stuck with what you’ve got.
Like me. Like my friend who’s going to have my voice right next to his silken tones in that audition clip.
Wait, do you suppose that’s why he wants me there, so I can contrast him and make him sound better? He wouldn’t do that to me – would he?
Aw, who cares? Show me the money and let the world decide how many fingernails down the chalkboard I sound like.
A few days ago, a friend contacted me and asked if I might be interested in doing an audition tape with him. No, the audition is for him, not for me, but he is paying me for my voice time. I’m never against making a few more coins on top of the few coins I already make, so I agreed.
Then, I got curious. I sort of have an idea of what I sound like because I change my voicemail message every day. It ain’t the nicest thing to listen to. My normal voice is a little higher pitched than I always expect and has a nasal quality that only a fellow sinus sufferer can love. It also has a quality to it that I’ve heard in long-time smokers and I’m a lifelong non-smoker. I also talk faster than some of the doctors I complain about. I basically sound like a dorky, asthmatic teenager who’s had one too many colas. While I’ll proudly call myself a dork, admit to having allergies and imbibing in 2-3 caffeinated beverages a day, my time of qualifying to be a teenager is long over.
The audition tape is scripted. You might think there’s hope in that fact. Trust me, that only makes it worse. The last time I read from a script was during a brief stint in drama club back in the stone age of junior high, when I realized that an actor’s life was not for me. I tried practicing with the recording software on my computer the other night and was disappointed, to say the least. I mean, when you want to wince on hearing something that you consider good writing, there’s something wrong. I read without hitting the emotional marks that I would want to hear as a listener, and my delivery sounded
disjointed,
distracted,
borderline staccato (not to be confused with borderline psychotic, although …)
But, let’s face it. Few of us can say we like the way we sound, scripted or unscripted, rehearsed or impromtu. When asked, we can find the negative qualities faster than anyone else and can likely name someone that we wouldn’t mind sounding a little more like (Lauren Bacall is my personal choice). But, unless you’re willing to put more time and effort into sounding your best, you’re stuck with what you’ve got.
Like me. Like my friend who’s going to have my voice right next to his silken tones in that audition clip.
Wait, do you suppose that’s why he wants me there, so I can contrast him and make him sound better? He wouldn’t do that to me – would he?
Aw, who cares? Show me the money and let the world decide how many fingernails down the chalkboard I sound like.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Ah, the Joys of Health Insurance
Back in 2004, after being laid off in an en masse budget conscious move, I lost my health insurance. I was given the option of maintaining it through COBRA (Consolidated Omnibus Budget Reconciliation Act, for those unfamiliar with the jargon), but even getting my former group's group rate for health insurance was out of range for me to pay. It also turned out that I made too little to pay for even the poorest health insurance coverage money could buy while on unemployment and made too much on unemployment to qualify for Medicaid. This between a rock and a hard place existence continued while I was underemployed in several part time jobs and then working in a full time temporary position and another part time job simultaneously. If I had lived a financially pristine, never put anything on the pretty plastic card lifestyle prior to becoming a Dept. of Labor unemployment statistic, I wouldn't have had a problem. Didn't do that, though, so for two years, I lived on good health and a prayer. During that time, I saw my primary care providers twice and had to pay for the visits piecemeal each time. They were incredibly understanding. No routine exams, no consults, no testing of any kind, and only the two more urgent, non-critical events that warranted the doling out of cash in small amounts that I really didn't have.
I know I'm not unique in this situation. There are those who were and still are without health insurance. Too many. They fell through the cracks like I did, making too little money to pay for their own and too much money to qualify for assistance. Health insurance costs are frightening, especially when not making enough to make ends meet already. People take their chances, hoping that illnesses and accidents don't happen. I was fortunate in that I only had two things come up that I decided needed more attention than my medicine cabinet and I could handle. Not everyone is that lucky, though.
This is turning into a tirade, tilting at the health insurance industry's reinforced windmills. Shall leave that fight to those more qualified. Now in a permanent position again, I have health insurance. I saw my nurse practitioner earlier this week for the first physical I've had in two years and she ordered some tests that are overdue by medical standards, including bloodwork and a mammogram. She also referred me to have the infamous "age appropriate" colonoscopy; she may not see the results of that any time soon, though. I feel safer in a way I haven't for some time. Free to fall and trip, free to shovel heavy snow so much that it's hard to tell what's causing the chest pain, free to take another tumble off my back roof, free to go out into the woods and pick up a few deer ticks, free to be in the presence of someone with chicken pox and inhale deeply (it's passed by droplets in the air and by touching, and nope, never had them). Okay, maybe not, but I really do feel just a wee bit safer.
Being not all that far away from my 50th birthday, I recognize that the need for health care may increase unexpectedly and exponentially at any time and that without any health insurance, recovery has a price tag that can lead to ruin. I'm happy to finally be back in the land of the health insurance card carrier, but my heart returns to those who aren't that fortunate. Single with no dependents or married with a family to support, it's all the same when the medical bills start to pile up.
I feel that tirade coming on again. Maybe I need to learn to tilt at windmills.
I know I'm not unique in this situation. There are those who were and still are without health insurance. Too many. They fell through the cracks like I did, making too little money to pay for their own and too much money to qualify for assistance. Health insurance costs are frightening, especially when not making enough to make ends meet already. People take their chances, hoping that illnesses and accidents don't happen. I was fortunate in that I only had two things come up that I decided needed more attention than my medicine cabinet and I could handle. Not everyone is that lucky, though.
This is turning into a tirade, tilting at the health insurance industry's reinforced windmills. Shall leave that fight to those more qualified. Now in a permanent position again, I have health insurance. I saw my nurse practitioner earlier this week for the first physical I've had in two years and she ordered some tests that are overdue by medical standards, including bloodwork and a mammogram. She also referred me to have the infamous "age appropriate" colonoscopy; she may not see the results of that any time soon, though. I feel safer in a way I haven't for some time. Free to fall and trip, free to shovel heavy snow so much that it's hard to tell what's causing the chest pain, free to take another tumble off my back roof, free to go out into the woods and pick up a few deer ticks, free to be in the presence of someone with chicken pox and inhale deeply (it's passed by droplets in the air and by touching, and nope, never had them). Okay, maybe not, but I really do feel just a wee bit safer.
Being not all that far away from my 50th birthday, I recognize that the need for health care may increase unexpectedly and exponentially at any time and that without any health insurance, recovery has a price tag that can lead to ruin. I'm happy to finally be back in the land of the health insurance card carrier, but my heart returns to those who aren't that fortunate. Single with no dependents or married with a family to support, it's all the same when the medical bills start to pile up.
I feel that tirade coming on again. Maybe I need to learn to tilt at windmills.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
It's the heat, you see
Actually, it was the heat from last year that made me write this bit of silly poetry. Still applies during the hot spell that is July 2006 as much as it did last year about this time. Strange how that happens. To the handful of folks who've already read it, my apologies for the repeat -- go get a lemonade, your choice of alcoholic or non-alcoholic. I prefer the latter. Better for you in the heat, anyway.
Sleep Deprived
5 AM and reluctantly up out of bed
for sleep eluded this weary head
Foggy mind and tired body are mine for today
will the dog days of summer ever go ' way?
Heat and humidity with no A/C
makes sleeping as hard as any chore can be
Sleep and wake, toss and turn, murmur expletive deleted
for the minutes of rest this weather has meted
You can't do much with sleep deprivation
being up and functional a horrid sensation
Every move and thought a much slower act
in the hope of maintaining this life's pact
But September will come with cooler air to be sure
ultimately this insomniac's cure
Until then coffee cups must be filled to the rim
To bring my mind out of its consciousness dim
So as I fill my first moments with muddy brew
and write these poetic words I must coo
If I'm required to look in the mirror at this tired sight
I should have a better reason to be awake at night
Lauren Swartzmiller - 2005
Sleep Deprived
5 AM and reluctantly up out of bed
for sleep eluded this weary head
Foggy mind and tired body are mine for today
will the dog days of summer ever go ' way?
Heat and humidity with no A/C
makes sleeping as hard as any chore can be
Sleep and wake, toss and turn, murmur expletive deleted
for the minutes of rest this weather has meted
You can't do much with sleep deprivation
being up and functional a horrid sensation
Every move and thought a much slower act
in the hope of maintaining this life's pact
But September will come with cooler air to be sure
ultimately this insomniac's cure
Until then coffee cups must be filled to the rim
To bring my mind out of its consciousness dim
So as I fill my first moments with muddy brew
and write these poetic words I must coo
If I'm required to look in the mirror at this tired sight
I should have a better reason to be awake at night
Lauren Swartzmiller - 2005
Thursday, June 01, 2006
The Lesson Relearned
So many times in my life, I've been reminded that Karma has a way of coming back and biting one on the ass. It isn't necessarily in a way that hurts. Sometimes, it's only a subtle reminder.
Today, for the first time in my 30 years of driving, I parked in a handicapped parking space. Honestly, I have NEVER done it before, wouldn't normally think of doing it, glare at seemingly able-bodied people without permit or license who do, etc. In my extremely poor defense of this action, I had been held up a half an hour, unable to move my car due to being blocked in the parking lot where I work by high school track meet student-laden school buses, was held up in traffic after that and, finally, found the handicapped parking space the only space left and I was only going to be in there two minutes at best. Could I have gone onto another convenience store? Sure. Did I? Insert short, embarrassed laugh here.
Hello, butt-bitin' Karma? Have I got a job for you.
I went into the store, got my one item that I could have gone anywhere else for and hightailed it out. Not fast enough. As I got back to my car, what did I see but a car with a handicapped license plate parked right next to mine, and the driver, a gentleman likely in his 60s or so, just coming around to the passenger side at a slow pace. As soon as he realized which car I was going to, he stopped and waited. He had cause to be annoyed. It was his legal right to park in the spot my car was occupying. Did he say anything? Yes. With a gracious wave of his hand, he pleasantly said, "After you, Miss." I muttered my thank you, then as quickly as my only mildly aching back would take me, I got in my car and left.
With deadly aim, whether intentional or not, this man had killed me with kindness. I could hear the slogan "Don't Put Yourself in Their Space" ringing through my mind as clearly as if I were hearing it on the radio, from an advocate for the disabled, or from a police officer giving me the ticket I so richly deserved. Worse, I could hear my brother, a disabled veteran, scolding me from across the country about my selfishness all the way home.
Now, to raise another item in my extremely poor defense, I have genuine physical problems that make me sometimes wish I had a permit to park in those pretty blue spaces. The MRI machine and I are old friends and I have some real damage in my spine and some weightbearing joints. But, I've painfully limped my way from far back in many a parking lot many a time in the past, and consider myself quite able-bodied most other times. The mildness of today's aches was no excuse.
So, in exchange for my brazenly inappropriate act, I was gently reminded of the health I still have, the obstacles that others must deal with everyday and the simple things that I can and should be doing to help those not as physically fortunate as myself. Will I ever park in a handicapped parking space again? With appropriate permit or license, maybe. But like my part-time wheelchair driving brother, I think I'll still park in the spaces further back so that others who have more difficulty getting around, for whatever reason, can do so with just a little more ease.
To the unknown gentleman who extended this reminder, my sincerest apologies here and my promise to never do it again.
And to whatever force in the universe that sent that bit of Karma to take a chunk out of my derrière today, ouch -- and thanks.
Today, for the first time in my 30 years of driving, I parked in a handicapped parking space. Honestly, I have NEVER done it before, wouldn't normally think of doing it, glare at seemingly able-bodied people without permit or license who do, etc. In my extremely poor defense of this action, I had been held up a half an hour, unable to move my car due to being blocked in the parking lot where I work by high school track meet student-laden school buses, was held up in traffic after that and, finally, found the handicapped parking space the only space left and I was only going to be in there two minutes at best. Could I have gone onto another convenience store? Sure. Did I? Insert short, embarrassed laugh here.
Hello, butt-bitin' Karma? Have I got a job for you.
I went into the store, got my one item that I could have gone anywhere else for and hightailed it out. Not fast enough. As I got back to my car, what did I see but a car with a handicapped license plate parked right next to mine, and the driver, a gentleman likely in his 60s or so, just coming around to the passenger side at a slow pace. As soon as he realized which car I was going to, he stopped and waited. He had cause to be annoyed. It was his legal right to park in the spot my car was occupying. Did he say anything? Yes. With a gracious wave of his hand, he pleasantly said, "After you, Miss." I muttered my thank you, then as quickly as my only mildly aching back would take me, I got in my car and left.
With deadly aim, whether intentional or not, this man had killed me with kindness. I could hear the slogan "Don't Put Yourself in Their Space" ringing through my mind as clearly as if I were hearing it on the radio, from an advocate for the disabled, or from a police officer giving me the ticket I so richly deserved. Worse, I could hear my brother, a disabled veteran, scolding me from across the country about my selfishness all the way home.
Now, to raise another item in my extremely poor defense, I have genuine physical problems that make me sometimes wish I had a permit to park in those pretty blue spaces. The MRI machine and I are old friends and I have some real damage in my spine and some weightbearing joints. But, I've painfully limped my way from far back in many a parking lot many a time in the past, and consider myself quite able-bodied most other times. The mildness of today's aches was no excuse.
So, in exchange for my brazenly inappropriate act, I was gently reminded of the health I still have, the obstacles that others must deal with everyday and the simple things that I can and should be doing to help those not as physically fortunate as myself. Will I ever park in a handicapped parking space again? With appropriate permit or license, maybe. But like my part-time wheelchair driving brother, I think I'll still park in the spaces further back so that others who have more difficulty getting around, for whatever reason, can do so with just a little more ease.
To the unknown gentleman who extended this reminder, my sincerest apologies here and my promise to never do it again.
And to whatever force in the universe that sent that bit of Karma to take a chunk out of my derrière today, ouch -- and thanks.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Are you unpoopular?
First of all, the spelling error in the title is deliberate.
Second of all, contrary to what you think might be implied by the title, it is not about a particular bodily function. I could do a dissertation on the gastrointestinal tract of the human body and what it does to keep itself and you moving, but you can go to any number of websites and get a very detailed and precise description in half the words it always takes me to write about something. So, let's not and say we didn't.
No, this has to do with writing and being thick-skinned about it. I've been writing for a long time. As I think back on that statement, I realize my story and poem composing days started before I was 10 years old. Long time (see two sentences down). I don't turn a phrase well enough to make a living at it; but, some folks apparently think I know enough to be able to proof and critique their work. Okay, it boosts the ego a bit to be asked to do this favor and perhaps it's because I do it gratis that I keep getting asked (why, yes, I was that sucker born in that minute back in 1957). But, if you're going to ask for this freebie, be prepared to get what you pay for.
Long ago and not so far away, I took a class in creative writing where each bit of composition was meticuously dissected. You might have felt like you wrote a piece that could win (insert award of choice here), only to have it ripped apart, sentence by sentence, word choice by word choice, until you felt like you knew less than nothing. It was vicious. To this day, much as I came to call the man who taught this class a friend, I'm not entirely convinced that his motives were all positive. But, after I licked my wounds and got over all the comments on the papers and really started to think about everything he had to say, I realized that a) he was right (damn it!), and b) the scathing critiques might really have been meant to toughen young hides to rejections that might come regardless of any stellar writing ability we had or might develop. It was a few years, but I actually thanked him for that bit of tough teaching -- right before I smacked him in the head with a newspaper.
Why bring this up? Be afraid, poem, essay, term paper and story writers, as I tend to use a softened version of this same mean old reviewing method on things I'm asked to look at nowadays. I break down works line by line sometimes, but I try to temper what I have say as much as possible. I don't rip folks apart, but I don't coddle them, either. Some have taken exception to this of late, using language associated with the above-mentioned bodily function. I've decided to take exception to their exception here, with my explanation for same attached.
I don't want folks to write like me (can you imagine?). I want folks to write their best, to express their thoughts in their words in a way that conveys what they want to say loudly and clearly. If I offend you with my opinion, then don't keep asking me to look at what you've written. Go hire a professional to review it for you. If you're really serious about breaking into writing at a professional level, you will need to do this at some point, anyway.
Finally, in a personal note to the instructor who's responsible for my approach to critiquing, who I know reads this silly blog -- hey, Steve, you'll notice I'm still long-winded. Deal with it.
Second of all, contrary to what you think might be implied by the title, it is not about a particular bodily function. I could do a dissertation on the gastrointestinal tract of the human body and what it does to keep itself and you moving, but you can go to any number of websites and get a very detailed and precise description in half the words it always takes me to write about something. So, let's not and say we didn't.
No, this has to do with writing and being thick-skinned about it. I've been writing for a long time. As I think back on that statement, I realize my story and poem composing days started before I was 10 years old. Long time (see two sentences down). I don't turn a phrase well enough to make a living at it; but, some folks apparently think I know enough to be able to proof and critique their work. Okay, it boosts the ego a bit to be asked to do this favor and perhaps it's because I do it gratis that I keep getting asked (why, yes, I was that sucker born in that minute back in 1957). But, if you're going to ask for this freebie, be prepared to get what you pay for.
Long ago and not so far away, I took a class in creative writing where each bit of composition was meticuously dissected. You might have felt like you wrote a piece that could win (insert award of choice here), only to have it ripped apart, sentence by sentence, word choice by word choice, until you felt like you knew less than nothing. It was vicious. To this day, much as I came to call the man who taught this class a friend, I'm not entirely convinced that his motives were all positive. But, after I licked my wounds and got over all the comments on the papers and really started to think about everything he had to say, I realized that a) he was right (damn it!), and b) the scathing critiques might really have been meant to toughen young hides to rejections that might come regardless of any stellar writing ability we had or might develop. It was a few years, but I actually thanked him for that bit of tough teaching -- right before I smacked him in the head with a newspaper.
Why bring this up? Be afraid, poem, essay, term paper and story writers, as I tend to use a softened version of this same mean old reviewing method on things I'm asked to look at nowadays. I break down works line by line sometimes, but I try to temper what I have say as much as possible. I don't rip folks apart, but I don't coddle them, either. Some have taken exception to this of late, using language associated with the above-mentioned bodily function. I've decided to take exception to their exception here, with my explanation for same attached.
I don't want folks to write like me (can you imagine?). I want folks to write their best, to express their thoughts in their words in a way that conveys what they want to say loudly and clearly. If I offend you with my opinion, then don't keep asking me to look at what you've written. Go hire a professional to review it for you. If you're really serious about breaking into writing at a professional level, you will need to do this at some point, anyway.
Finally, in a personal note to the instructor who's responsible for my approach to critiquing, who I know reads this silly blog -- hey, Steve, you'll notice I'm still long-winded. Deal with it.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
The consequence of action
This is dedicated to those who beat themselves into senseless pulps psychologically over things they’ve done that they’ve come to regret. What can I say but, right there with you.
Without going into detail, today held for me the right action for the right reason done in the wrong place at the wrong time. Heck, any other safety-minded person not aware of the equal and opposite effect of this conscientious act would likely have chosen the same course. Thing is, this correct act at the incorrect moment under slightly different circumstances would have turned very, very wrong, and the realization of this fact sent me briefly into a weeping tizzy.
Piqued your curiosity? Live with not knowing. That’s not what this is about. This is about playing the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘I should haves’ until those proverbial cows come home. I can do that. I’ve done it many times. I’m good at it. Regretted the choices made and not made, the roads taken and not taken. Oh, yeah, lots of practice. But, I’m learning the gentle art of letting go of things and, yes, even forgiving myself for some of it. Hey, I said was still learning.
You can berate yourself, hate yourself viciously (I think I’m channeling lyrics from “Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol”, for those who think they sound familiar), but it’s not going to change the outcome. That’s etched in history, with no way to undo it. You can live and relive the moments, playing them in your head over and over and over, or perhaps you’re more inclined to run different scenarios of the same event ad nauseum trying to get a better outcome. But, unless you’re an efficiency expert trying to prevent similar situations for future populations, please stop. You do have to think about those moments you’re not pleased with, but then realize that they’re done and move on. To let them run your existence is wrong. I know, easy to say, not always easy to do. But, the steps forward have to start somewhere. Make amends with others when possible. Fix what’s been broken if it can be fixed. Take a chance if a chance is needed, or stop taking chances if it’s all you do and it gets you nowhere. Above all, accept that it’s happened, learn from it and stop looking back at it. Hindsight isn’t always better.
Go live your life in a better way and put away those wrong moves for your memoirs.
Without going into detail, today held for me the right action for the right reason done in the wrong place at the wrong time. Heck, any other safety-minded person not aware of the equal and opposite effect of this conscientious act would likely have chosen the same course. Thing is, this correct act at the incorrect moment under slightly different circumstances would have turned very, very wrong, and the realization of this fact sent me briefly into a weeping tizzy.
Piqued your curiosity? Live with not knowing. That’s not what this is about. This is about playing the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘I should haves’ until those proverbial cows come home. I can do that. I’ve done it many times. I’m good at it. Regretted the choices made and not made, the roads taken and not taken. Oh, yeah, lots of practice. But, I’m learning the gentle art of letting go of things and, yes, even forgiving myself for some of it. Hey, I said was still learning.
You can berate yourself, hate yourself viciously (I think I’m channeling lyrics from “Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol”, for those who think they sound familiar), but it’s not going to change the outcome. That’s etched in history, with no way to undo it. You can live and relive the moments, playing them in your head over and over and over, or perhaps you’re more inclined to run different scenarios of the same event ad nauseum trying to get a better outcome. But, unless you’re an efficiency expert trying to prevent similar situations for future populations, please stop. You do have to think about those moments you’re not pleased with, but then realize that they’re done and move on. To let them run your existence is wrong. I know, easy to say, not always easy to do. But, the steps forward have to start somewhere. Make amends with others when possible. Fix what’s been broken if it can be fixed. Take a chance if a chance is needed, or stop taking chances if it’s all you do and it gets you nowhere. Above all, accept that it’s happened, learn from it and stop looking back at it. Hindsight isn’t always better.
Go live your life in a better way and put away those wrong moves for your memoirs.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
In our arrogance
There was big and little buzz in the news yesterday about the possibility of water in liquid form on Enceladus, one of Saturn's moons. The part that has a number of folks in the scientific community interested is that, with what we know of the requirements for life to exist, two of the elements (heat, water in a liquid state) exist on a rock other than our own in this planetary system. Could it be that there is life there and, if so, what sort of life is it?
Ultimately, the question becomes is there life elsewhere? Is there intelligent life somewhere other than our own terra firma? That question came up during one of the radio broadcasts I listened to yesterday.
Really, people, wake up! We know that the galaxy we're in is vast and that the universe our galaxy is in makes this planet we call home look smaller than the tip of the cliched needle in the haystack. We've seen this fact in those beautiful photos that continue to be taken by orbiting and planet-bound telescopes. Are we truly so egocentric to think we're the only intelligent life going on in and beyond the Milky Way?
While I'm going on about that, what about the possibility of intelligent life as we don't know it evolving under conditions which we would consider impossible for life to even begin. Do we really think carbon-based beings are the only ones that can sprout any smarts?
Our thinking has changed over the millenia we've been able to contemplate our existence, from thinking beyond our village to a whole region, a whole country, a whole continent, a whole world. During that time, our ancestors managed to stare up at the sky and wonder if the universe really revolved around us or if there was something more, otherwise we would never have learned about the little bit we know beyond our planet's boundaries. Science fiction writers have creatively hypothesized about life beyond our tiny corner of the cosmos for more than a century, and I won't even get into all the sightings of UFOs and extraterrestrial beings which may or may not have credence. I'm just going to ask again, are we really still so ignorant or arrogant to think that we're alone?
Ultimately, the question becomes is there life elsewhere? Is there intelligent life somewhere other than our own terra firma? That question came up during one of the radio broadcasts I listened to yesterday.
Really, people, wake up! We know that the galaxy we're in is vast and that the universe our galaxy is in makes this planet we call home look smaller than the tip of the cliched needle in the haystack. We've seen this fact in those beautiful photos that continue to be taken by orbiting and planet-bound telescopes. Are we truly so egocentric to think we're the only intelligent life going on in and beyond the Milky Way?
While I'm going on about that, what about the possibility of intelligent life as we don't know it evolving under conditions which we would consider impossible for life to even begin. Do we really think carbon-based beings are the only ones that can sprout any smarts?
Our thinking has changed over the millenia we've been able to contemplate our existence, from thinking beyond our village to a whole region, a whole country, a whole continent, a whole world. During that time, our ancestors managed to stare up at the sky and wonder if the universe really revolved around us or if there was something more, otherwise we would never have learned about the little bit we know beyond our planet's boundaries. Science fiction writers have creatively hypothesized about life beyond our tiny corner of the cosmos for more than a century, and I won't even get into all the sightings of UFOs and extraterrestrial beings which may or may not have credence. I'm just going to ask again, are we really still so ignorant or arrogant to think that we're alone?
Thursday, March 09, 2006
The work week works for me
There's something to be said about a job that you enjoy doing that won't allow you to do overtime. I'd call it ideal if the pay were a little higher. For now, I'll just call it nice. I've put in 37 hours and temporal change already this week, which means that tomorrow is going to be a very short workday on a day when the weather's been promised to be very spring-like. Weather forecasters, don't fail me now.
See, here's my problem. I was born either with a slacker gene or without a workaholic gene. Either way, I prefer a life without overtime, be it voluntary, mandatory or something in between. It's not that I want my workday to end abruptly after 8 hours. I just seem to do my best within the 40-hour work week. There has to be some reason why those who came before us decided on the magical number of 40 as the point where time and a half begins.
Don't get me wrong. Yes, I have expenses like everyone else -- food, shelter, taxes, internet access, kitty litter. My portion of the national debt could buy a very nice little used car like the one I'm driving and still making payments on. But, my desire to get away from even the nicest job and do something else overrides the drive to make more money by putting in hours that only caffeine (or worse) could maintain. This could easily change if my expenses increased dramatically; however, I live a simple life with simple needs and only catastrophe could take me back down the road of full-time and part-time jobs running simultaneously. I've done that a few times and earned that grubby, tattered t-shirt. But, I really don't want to wear it again.
Now, where are those cobblestones that I can be kicking down and feeling groovy?
See, here's my problem. I was born either with a slacker gene or without a workaholic gene. Either way, I prefer a life without overtime, be it voluntary, mandatory or something in between. It's not that I want my workday to end abruptly after 8 hours. I just seem to do my best within the 40-hour work week. There has to be some reason why those who came before us decided on the magical number of 40 as the point where time and a half begins.
Don't get me wrong. Yes, I have expenses like everyone else -- food, shelter, taxes, internet access, kitty litter. My portion of the national debt could buy a very nice little used car like the one I'm driving and still making payments on. But, my desire to get away from even the nicest job and do something else overrides the drive to make more money by putting in hours that only caffeine (or worse) could maintain. This could easily change if my expenses increased dramatically; however, I live a simple life with simple needs and only catastrophe could take me back down the road of full-time and part-time jobs running simultaneously. I've done that a few times and earned that grubby, tattered t-shirt. But, I really don't want to wear it again.
Now, where are those cobblestones that I can be kicking down and feeling groovy?
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